Downtown Bachelor Party Depravity
I am posting below the opening salvo of a trip report I wrote in 2015. My son invited me to his bachelor party in Las Vegas over the Labor Day weekend. I did not post the bachelor party trip report because, in the end, it seemed to violate the “Stays in Vegas” mantra and, more important, any bachelor party expectation of confidentiality.
Downtown Bachelor Party Depravity
Labor Day Weekend, 2015
Finally, my son Sarge asked his high school sweet heart to marry him, ten years after graduating high school. Las Vegas was the only place to Bachelor Party according to him. With employment commitments and two extended Army trainings throughout the summer, Labor Day weekend became his first and only choice for a long Vegas weekend scrum with Lady Luck and other circumstances beyond control. The “Party” consisted of a minister, a rocket scientist, a rookie cop, a nurse/geologist and an unemployed philosopher. Sarge asked me to go. I didn’t refuse, even though Labor Day weekend is not my favorite holiday to spend in Las Vegas due to the herds of fanny-pack ploppies slowly waddling, ten abreast, on every inch of available sidewalk on the strip or Freemont Street. Additionally, I didn’t want to be the default deep-pocket for this unfunded (at best underfunded) mandate. Also, I hold intrusive, reoccurring, traumatic memories for most of the bachelor boys as teenaged terrorist shite-heads. All of their teenaged hijinks have been forgiven, but definitely not forgotten. I assisted the party in booking rooms downtown. The boys doubled up to save money. I booked a nice room at the Golden Nugget and thoroughly enjoyed my stay there. The pool is cool. The pits were lively.
We started to gather on Thursday night in a small bar in the Golden Nugget. To start the party, I offered to buy a shot and a beer for everyone. The beers came first, a local, soft and fuzzy amber ale. I offered a toast and then offered to guide the party Friday afternoon on a boozy, public transportation, cheap gambling safari from Downtown to the Strip. Sarge and I exploited this safari route during his Vegas Virgin trip. With pint glasses raised, “hiphiphorray,” I detailed my personal, exclusive plans for the long weekend. Generously scheduling pool and play time on both Friday and Saturday for myself- far, far away from the soon-to-be concrete kissing, bachelor boy reprobates. Sarge surveyed the hundred or so tequilas to choose and chose a bottle with a fancy silver/ blue foil and an even fancier price tag. Seven beers and six shots cost $168. The bachelor party wandered up and down Freemont, hustling cheap beers in flimsy plastic cups, then, enmass, stormed into a drug store to purchase ½ pints and stinky cigars. Puffing putrid stogies and knocking back eight ounces of skell vodka before turning off fabulous Fremont, the bachelor party wave crashed into the golden gates of the El Cortez. Two bachelor boyz announced they brought $77 to gamble! Good luck to all!!! After groping Lady Luck for 90 minutes, the party poured out of ElCo, herding towards Fremont and made another pit stop at the drug store again. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;”
The celebrating bachelors wobbled and weaved all the way to the Plaza, ate some familiar Tex/Mex in the food court and then found a way to be served good-enough cocktails without being 86’d for singing Irish songs or, seemingly, discovering the meaning of life. Staggered and disoriented by the length of the day, and lack of sleep, I sat down at the Plaza’s bar with two bachelor boys on my wings. We practiced loading up the JOB machine, ordering drinks and tipping the bartender. From an EtOH compromised memory the wingmen bachelors were tutored, with a small batch Bourbon slur, to make the correct plays on JOB for about thirty hands. Suddenly, Sarge was tugging on my shoulder demanding that I shoot craps with him. Standing at the craps table, light headed, disoriented, nothing was recognizable or made sense. I wasn’t feeling physical ill, instead, experiencing some kind of disconcerting, disassociating fugue. Somehow, after a sloppy buy in, I made a passline wager or two and won!!! Cashing out + $35, I bid fare thee well to Sarge, complaining about lost points of reference. Feeling some sort of uneasy recovery breathing the rarified air at #1 Main Street, I started walking down Freemont towards the Golden Nugget. Half way home, Sarge was pulling on my shoulder again, jubilantly yelling: “I know why you were feeling so F****d-Up. Did you know you were playing Crapless Craps?”
Well, good night, ladies! Merrily we roll along, roll along, roll along”…
Quote: robbiehoodHello all!!! I’m celebrating my 10 year anniversary on WOV. Even though I haven’t posted since 2017, I still enjoy lurking the board. Since my last trip report (1/10/15), I’ve enjoyed Vegas adventures only three additional times. I have not visited Las Vegas in 30 months, in part, due to my loss of tolerance for anything alcoholic, and the loss of my ability to suspend disbelief. I hope to visit Las Vegas in April, 2020. I have quit Black Jack and Craps but plan to continue my quest to hit a Royal Flush. Hitting a Royal Flush has become a quixotic impulse since I have never hit one in my 35 years of playing JOB. Anyway Happy WOV Anniversary to me!!!
I am posting below the opening salvo of a trip report I wrote in 2015. My son invited me to his bachelor party in Las Vegas over the Labor Day weekend. I did not post the bachelor party trip report because, in the end, it seemed to violate the “Stays in Vegas” mantra and, more important, any bachelor party expectation of confidentiality.
Downtown Bachelor Party Depravity
Labor Day Weekend, 2015
Finally, my son Sarge asked his high school sweet heart to marry him, ten years after graduating high school. Las Vegas was the only place to Bachelor Party according to him. With employment commitments and two extended Army trainings throughout the summer, Labor Day weekend became his first and only choice for a long Vegas weekend scrum with Lady Luck and other circumstances beyond control. The “Party” consisted of a minister, a rocket scientist, a rookie cop, a nurse/geologist and an unemployed philosopher. Sarge asked me to go. I didn’t refuse, even though Labor Day weekend is not my favorite holiday to spend in Las Vegas due to the herds of fanny-pack ploppies slowly waddling, ten abreast, on every inch of available sidewalk on the strip or Freemont Street. Additionally, I didn’t want to be the default deep-pocket for this unfunded (at best underfunded) mandate. Also, I hold intrusive, reoccurring, traumatic memories for most of the bachelor boys as teenaged terrorist shite-heads. All of their teenaged hijinks have been forgiven, but definitely not forgotten. I assisted the party in booking rooms downtown. The boys doubled up to save money. I booked a nice room at the Golden Nugget and thoroughly enjoyed my stay there. The pool is cool. The pits were lively.
We started to gather on Thursday night in a small bar in the Golden Nugget. To start the party, I offered to buy a shot and a beer for everyone. The beers came first, a local, soft and fuzzy amber ale. I offered a toast and then offered to guide the party Friday afternoon on a boozy, public transportation, cheap gambling safari from Downtown to the Strip. Sarge and I exploited this safari route during his Vegas Virgin trip. With pint glasses raised, “hiphiphorray,” I detailed my personal, exclusive plans for the long weekend. Generously scheduling pool and play time on both Friday and Saturday for myself- far, far away from the soon-to-be concrete kissing, bachelor boy reprobates. Sarge surveyed the hundred or so tequilas to choose and chose a bottle with a fancy silver/ blue foil and an even fancier price tag. Seven beers and six shots cost $168. The bachelor party wandered up and down Freemont, hustling cheap beers in flimsy plastic cups, then, enmass, stormed into a drug store to purchase ½ pints and stinky cigars. Puffing putrid stogies and knocking back eight ounces of skell vodka before turning off fabulous Fremont, the bachelor party wave crashed into the golden gates of the El Cortez. Two bachelor boyz announced they brought $77 to gamble! Good luck to all!!! After groping Lady Luck for 90 minutes, the party poured out of ElCo, herding towards Fremont and made another pit stop at the drug store again. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;”
The celebrating bachelors wobbled and weaved all the way to the Plaza, ate some familiar Tex/Mex in the food court and then found a way to be served good-enough cocktails without being 86’d for singing Irish songs or, seemingly, discovering the meaning of life. Staggered and disoriented by the length of the day, and lack of sleep, I sat down at the Plaza’s bar with two bachelor boys on my wings. We practiced loading up the JOB machine, ordering drinks and tipping the bartender. From an EtOH compromised memory the wingmen bachelors were tutored, with a small batch Bourbon slur, to make the correct plays on JOB for about thirty hands. Suddenly, Sarge was tugging on my shoulder demanding that I shoot craps with him. Standing at the craps table, light headed, disoriented, nothing was recognizable or made sense. I wasn’t feeling physical ill, instead, experiencing some kind of disconcerting, disassociating fugue. Somehow, after a sloppy buy in, I made a passline wager or two and won!!! Cashing out + $35, I bid fare thee well to Sarge, complaining about lost points of reference. Feeling some sort of uneasy recovery breathing the rarified air at #1 Main Street, I started walking down Freemont towards the Golden Nugget. Half way home, Sarge was pulling on my shoulder again, jubilantly yelling: “I know why you were feeling so F****d-Up. Did you know you were playing Crapless Craps?”
Well, good night, ladies! Merrily we roll along, roll along, roll along”…
Welcome back, robbiehood. Nice to see you again.
If you're chasing royals, may I suggest Fortune PaiGowPoker. I had one in October that was worth $750 + ~$2500 on a progressive table with both $5 sidebets. 7 cards to work with, and the Joker counts. So it's easier to get than a lot of other games.
I would also suggest you select different casinos and a different area of town a n time of day.
I am not suggesting you become a ploppie but I would suggest a quiet, slow game of craps in a well respected casino while you are in a state of mind that keeps you well aware of whether its craps or crapless craps. Perhaps an early morning game somewhere with fewer than a dozen players. Enjoy the free bottle of water the Tray Lizard will be happy to bring you.
Then play one hand of Blackjack without any "shopping" for a good rule set.
Only after the New Vegas orientation should you embark on your quest for a Royal somewhere distant from the madding crowds of Fremont or the Strip.
Good Luck.
